


Sunday Morning and the Lawns Are Mowed

by ergo_existence



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2395655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ergo_existence/pseuds/ergo_existence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He lived in memory.</p><p>Leonard Church persists onwards; the Director watches in resigned, listless lack of acknowledgement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Morning and the Lawns Are Mowed

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated it. I hope you like it.
> 
> EDIT: 14/04/2015  
> This fic has been uploaded to a website stealing works on AO3, ebooks-tree.com, and I'm just leaving a note here to notify to you, the reader, this is where it was originally posted by me.  
> Also, ebooks-tree.com, please suck my dick.

_i._

 

The Director, Leonard Church, has an avid dislike for authority, as well as an avid dislike for those that flaunt said authority.

(It is, perhaps, ironic how he quickly becomes known only as the Director in his later years, but see, here, now, he is Leonard Church—despite his doctorate, he does not don the title).

He also has a preference for blondes, which is relatively relevant as of yet.

One of the many things that Leonard Church also dislikes is the functions that are of obligatory attendance, given his position in the UNSC as a scientific officer.

Another fact about Leonard Church is that there is a particular man with the most detestable brand of condescension known who goes by the name of Malcolm Hargrove. He is not yet the Chairman but he is, indeed, a man who needs to suck Leonard Church’s balls.

Not that he’s said that to Mr. Hargrove yet, but Leonard Church isn’t exactly familiar with _subtlety._

His very first meeting with the man was quite questionable. Leonard is in a suit, for once—at this younger age suits are meant for _old_ people, and despite lauded work he has achieved so far on artificial intelligence opposite Dr. Catherine Halsey, Leonard is not fond of formality. He is a man of the South but he is no genteel man.

After all, he is not an amount of numbers and calculations and data; he’ll leave the scrupulous need for order to those of the more synthetic of mind.

(It is, perhaps, ironic how the AI copied form of him still does not hold any proclivity towards regulation—will and power of humanity, surviving even so).

He exhales a breath into the cool air of the evening. Winter. It dances up, up, and disappears as quickly as it appeared from his mouth. There needs to be something to occupy Leonard, as the gel in his hair is the worst he’s ever had to use, and if he had his way, he’d have left it loose. He even had to shave his beard, neaten up the edges.

But it seems as though Leonard’s day has been fucking _shit_ so far; from the moment he awoke and remembered where he was due this evening—it’s nothing of importance, particularly, nothing more than a Friday dance and dinner, but appearances are appearances—and then discovered, in the breakroom, _somebody_ had fuckin’ drank all the milk _he_ liked _and_ fucking ate the sandwich he was saving.

So all around shitty day.

Now, Leonard is a _scientist_. He may or may not have chosen this line of work because he’s supposed to be able to _avoid_ people. Though when applying for his first course and university, it was unacceptable to say it’s because he’s typically a rather asocial individual. He just worded it far more structured and, also, weaved in a few words like _focus out of the public eye_ and other buzzwords.

His public relations advisor—who had to be brought in after that first award, when at the reception Leonard told everybody he was ‘better than all of the people in this room and it’s about time I’ve been fucking recognised’—is walking with him and chatting about the new dessert the cafeteria is offering, but Leonard’s always avoided _that_ particular end of the station for distinct reasons. Eventually he will put together his means and purchase a ship, and he’ll handpick the crew.

“And the _minute_ I saw that strawberry…”

That’s inasmuch all that catches his PRA saying.

His hands are deep in his pockets, after an approximately twenty minute hover-car drive, they’re five minutes away to the hall’s entrance. The gilded sign, above the arching door with elegant iron carvings, he cannot remember the title of. But it was gold. He liked the gold.

“Now, Leonard,” the advisor turns to him and begins, placing her hands on his shoulders, “Remember what we talked about.”

“What? You want me to be _polite_ and you want me to not call people fucking _idiots_ ,” he grates out painfully, sighing sulkily. “I got the message.” She dutifully removes her hands from his shoulders, but returns them to straighten out the creases she left.

“And you need to remember that you must be _polite_ even if you do not like whom you are speaking to,” she continues, her patience for him unmatched so far. They knew who to bring in, that’s for sure. “If you heavily dislike somebody, you _must_ cordially excuse yourself. A bathroom break is best as that will transfer the conversation to another individual. Leonard, there are ways to manoeuvre in this society _without_ calling everybody a—”

“—fucking idiot, yeah, I know,” he finishes for her, nodding his head disappointed. “Still, though.”

“And we are also late by seven minutes.” She sighs, stern eyes and young face inspecting where they stood. “We are to go in now before it is any worse.”

“Yeah, but see, I’m _Leonard Church_ ,” he says, the pair of them now walking again and the front door, huge and imposing and Leonard wants one of them one day, opens automatically, “I’m fashionably late.”

“You can’t always use the excuse you’re Leonard Church,” she replies, already knowing the direction of this conversation, leading him to the table where to which he would be sitting—they are, it seems, of no disturbance and Leonard may be smug, “One day somebody will ask who Leonard Church is.”

“And I’ll tell them who he is,” he says, sneering at man who shoots him a warning glare of his tardiness, “With a fucking _fist_.”

“ _Leonard_ ,” she chastises, pointing to his seat with _DR. LEONARD CHURCH_ marked, handwritten, on a cream-coloured placeholder. The table was a peculiar oval shape, Leonard already disliking it, though he was fond of the touches here and there at denoted personable effort. These days, the fashion of handwriting was a hot commodity for events; holographic images were out, paper in.

“ _Fine_ , I’ll fucking _sit_ ,” he hisses to her, and she purses her lips and pulls his chair out for him. It’s wood, at least—certainly a UNSC event, to have one of these on a planet like this.

“Be _have_ ,” she says just as lowly and viciously. This is about her cutting point of dealing with Leonard’s tendencies for the less conventional way of interaction.

“Ah, I’m so glad you’ve finally come to join us, Dr. Church,” a pompous, very annoyingly pompous, British accent begins from beside him—balding at maybe the same age as Leonard and suddenly Leonard is already proud of his own head of hair—and he can already detect the bureaucratic tone to his voice. Also, Leonard rarely ever goes by _Dr. Church_ , as he will suffer Dr. Leonard Church but, at this point, has managed to persuade his entire team into foregoing the titles.

“Excuse me for my _lateness_ ,” Leonard replies, carefully lowering himself and scooting his chair in. He’s suddenly very self-conscious of his own accent, which has been described as ‘dripping asshole-y Southern drawl’—he should note that assistant is his favourite, also, the only one he likes—so he decides to let it completely drop, to make it as possibly country as needed.

“Oh, no, it is of _no_ worry whatsoever.” The man smiles. “If you _will_ excuse _me_ for not introducing myself, I am Malcolm Hargrove.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever had the—” Leonard’s eyes flick to his PR consultant on his left side and she nods infinitesimally “— _pleasure_ of meeting you, Mr. Hargrove. As you may already _know_ I am—” she purses her lips and nods harder this time “—Dr. Leonard Church of the science faculty at Zeta Station currently studying the effectiveness of artificial intelligence in combat.”

“Ever pleased to me you, _Dr. Church_ ,” Hargrove says. “Dinner will be served soon enough and I do believe the mint sorbet is one to be savoured.”

“I must admit I have never had a particular taste for mint,” Leonard carefully says, attempting to channel all of the lessons Phyllis, his advisor, had powered through and given to him. “I much prefer chocolate.”

“The mint is to be had between meals, Dr. Church,” Hargrove cups his hands in his lap and meets Leonard’s hard gaze, “As a palate cleanser.”

Leonard decides to abandon this conversation and opt to introduce himself to the rest of the table, but the other guests were already in their own worlds talking, about things such as _new 4D printer_ and other gadgets that Leonard hated so. Printers, over five hundred years, were still the devils of the tech world.

But there was one woman who had the coldest look on her face.

“If I may _ask_ ,” Leonard decides to speak to Hargrove of his own volition, “what guests are seated at this table?”

“Oh, did you not read the letter?” he smiles and says. “We have a special guest here at our table.”

“ _Special_ guest?” Leonard removes his eyes away from Hargrove and scans the room, noting copies of the oval table again and again and he wonders of the hypothesis, copying an artificial intelligence in the same method. A blueprint, a hypothesis, an _idea_ (the most insidious of all concepts). Manufacturing. Delivery.

“Yes, yes,” Hargrove answers, raising his eyebrows at the lack of Leonard’s attention, “She is a Private who has been lauded with bravery medals. Very brutal, that sort of thing.” He sighs. “But she also managed to secure UNSC property stolen by a renegade group—important to your line of work, Dr. Church. Detestable, those splinters.”

“I like to think we may have a common goal,” Leonard says airily. “And this Private is seated with us?”

“Yes, that lovely looking blonde opposite you.”

He turns his neck, only slightly, and that’s enough to see her, to catch her defined face.

“I wouldn’t so much as commend her _lovely looks_ , Mr. Hargrove,” Leonard almost doesn’t manage to say because her eyes are the kind of hazel that the spring gods said could topple the seasons, could create winter from the deepest of summer, “As rather her ability to _possibly_ smash us in two.”

“Oh, I suppose so, yes, Dr. Church,” Hargrove says with little care to Leonard’s comment, “She does indeed deserve here to be tonight, no?” He stares, deliberately, at Leonard. He already understands what Hargrove means—Leonard might abhor public gatherings, but invites are everything—and he’s _this_ close to telling the asshole to fuck off.

It’s just Phyllis jabs him in the ribs and he doesn’t.

Leonard chooses, then, to instead directly inspect the Private seated across from him. Her stature is cold, clever, and she looks as bored to be here as Leonard. He can already feel a silent bond forming.

“Evening,” she says, noticing Leonard. “Dr. Church, right? Nice to meet you.”

Her accent twines over itself but doesn’t fall, isn’t annoyingly drippy or laced with any falsities.

“Good evening,” he says just the same to her. “You may call me Leonard, if you so choose.” He’s aware of his own accent then for the opposite reasons earlier, but he’ll not allow himself to worry over it too much. Mostly.

“Ooh, _lionhearted_.” She half-grins. “So why aren’t you a soldier, doctor?”

“I suppose I must be religious, then, for my last name.”

“Don’t worry,” she replies, and suddenly Leonard isn’t worrying, “My name’s Allison and that means ‘little Alice’. As you can see,” she says as she points to her arms uncovered by her dress, and Leonard can see why she chose that particular shade of black, also, “I’m not _little_.”

“I would have to agree.”

“Betcha would,” she grits out between a harsh laugh. “I like being the toughest here.”

“I’m sure you’re used to it.” He might be flirting. He might.

“Oh, yeah, I’m not the best leader but people usually listen to me,” she says, smiling now and seemingly more comfortable being seated with the more intellectual side of the UNSC. The doctor beside her, Leonard recognises from a similar line of work to his operating with virtual intelligences, is not the sort of woman to speak to Allison kindly.

“My assistants listen because I pay them.” Leonard even lets the side of his mouth upturn—not like he’ll say it’s a smile. Her eyes glint with something like confidence and her eyebrows were so sharp and thick she was the soldier he never wanted to be.

“Well, that’s one way of doing things. I can get behind that.”

“It’s called a job, yes,” Hargrove adds, letting his mouth stay open at the end of the sentence and sigh loudly. “It’s a common practice.”

“Sometimes, though, you want something on the _side_ ,” she says, looking at Hargrove now. “Ever been paid for anything _on the side_ , Hargrove?”

“No,” he says, leaning his elbows on the table. “I don’t suppose I’ve ever had the need to, Private.”

Allison smiles tightly and looks at Leonard. He says, “We did have a bet running on when Phyllis would quit.”

“Yes,” Phyllis talks, for the first time after watching Leonard’s interactions speculatively, “And I have done quite well so far, thank you, Leonard.”

“After the ceremony he attended the _first_ time, I would have to say it’s been a _marginal_ improvement,” Hargrove says as tapped his fingers on the table.

“That was _you_?” Allison says excitedly. “I thought it was, but I wasn’t sure. Wow. I loved that speech.”

With a quick glance around the table he says, attempting not to laugh even a little bit, “If I may be honest, I thought it was one of my best.”

There’s the most comfortable, light look on her face, still a hardened soldier but who looked so graceful it made Leonard’s chest hurt, “ _And I’ll say that I stand as the motherfucking tallest and most bad-ass in this room_. I use that line _all_ the time.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“It was my favourite,” she says. “Once it was available I had the transcript mailed to me. I was out with a squadron against a small Covenant fleet for a while, out in back-alley Alpha Centauri.” Then in that moment she starts to laugh softly but stops, hastily. “We had fun for days trying to read it in your accent.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“The very best of them,” she says. “Though your accent is kinda funny.”

Leonard’s eyes flick to Hargrove beside him who now has his arms crossed, in deep conversation with the man to his right, and Allison laughs again with a peal so high and terrifying, as they say beauty was.

He has never been well-acquainted with beauty or so concerned with it, but Allison piques his interest.

“The best,” she says, lower. “Are there going to be any similar soon, Leonard?”

“I don’t think Phyllis will allow me to make any further of a similar type,” he answers, and with the swiftest of straightened backs, he gulps down doubt and says, “Though I may write a few for you, if you would like, Allison.”

“And read them to me?”

“If you would like,” he repeats.

There. Right there.

If Leonard Church had to pinpoint where he knew Allison was going to be _Allison_ , that Allison is and was Allison, a monument to herself in moment to moment, it was right there, with the gentle amber light coating her cheekbones, the surety in her tone, all of it, _it was right there_.

He would have built temples for her.

And then, when he snaps out of her sonorous _yes,_ resounding _yes,_ calling to the depths of Leonard’s icy cold motherfucking heart, he’s right as rain, as his mother used to say.

Allison tilts her head and says, “So, looking for a dance partner?”

“I have never been one for dancing,” he begins, shiftily looking at Phyllis as they have the shared memory of that time with Dr. Tracey and how he complained so and called Phyllis a bitch for making him dance, which in reanalysis was unfair. “But I suppose I should try again.”

He lays on the accent thickly, so he comes off as the dutiful Southern man with the best manners.

Not like he’s, you know, well-mannered.

 

_ii._

Allison leads the dance with the boldness of that seemed to accompany her, always.

“Leonard, you have to stop swaying your hips so much,” she says, stifling a possibly mean chuckle, “We’re not in a fucking _club_.”

Oh, and she swears just as much as he.

“I’ve never been to something so pedestrian as a club,” he replies, focusing on reducing the hip-movement.

“Sure, sure.” She laughs. “Get a load of this classical.”

He rolls his eyes as he notices Hargrove, dancing expertly with his partner, “What fucking dweebs.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” she groans. “Tell me about it. I just wanna get this shit over with and go home.”

“Where do you live?” he asks, attempting not to hold her shoulder too tightly as she gripped his waist, without a care in the world for the neatness of his suit.

“Oh, I’m just holed up in a little hotel,” she answers easily. “But home’s home ‘cause of the people, right? I’ve got some friends staying with me.”

“I’ve never considered that.” He stares right into her eyes and she gives him a bored look.

“I can feel your fucking waist attempting to shimmy its way out of my hands,” she says and Leonard _chortles,_ fucking _chortles_ sheepishly.

That’s the first time he meets the Chairman but it’s also when he meets Allison.

 

_iii._

 

Leonard does really well the whole time, he _swears_. He swears.

He watches with brightness and intrigue as she receives her award, watches her walk up, prowess, tiger-like in the arch of her back.

Who he is then doesn’t matter; he’s Leonard and she’s Allison and he’s enamoured.

He does a really good job of keeping his manners in check until Mr. Hargrove begins speaks to him about the sub-committee he’s involved in and Some Such McFucknut Industries and he says this, as Allison is returning to her seat: “Mr. Hargrove, if you so will, shut your fucking piehole.”

Phyllis covers her face for a moment then attempts to smooth over and apologise for Leonard’s actions but after that Mr. Hargrove is hidden behind indifference and passive aggressive statements, which isn’t all that different from prior to.

Allison grins at Leonard and Leonard thinks she’s the best person he’s ever met.

The moment shatters piece by piece when Hargrove says, “Well, I do suppose you are flirting with the rather unorthodox, Dr. Church.”

Leonard is nothing if but unorthodox.

“If I may so say,” he begins slowly, resting his elbow beside Hargrove’s hand. “The untravelled path is, often, the best.”

“And I may ask why?”

“We discover, as humanity,” he says, attempting to come up with something poignant, when he’s prepared to just say ‘your _mom_ , that’s why’, “That evolution has always been the undone, unstrung.”

“Oh, how _very_ truthful, dear Dr. Church.” Hargrove nods his head and _mm_ s meaningfully.

When Hargrove turns away without a comment, Allison mouths, _you made that shit up_.

He nods, and she pulls out a data pad she _apparently_ had tucked down her bra, a small enough model to fit snugly.

“Had to commit it somewhere, Leonard,” she explains, finished tapping. “My platoon will love it. I have one guy who can almost do your accent.”

 

_iv.  
_

 

As it being the first function he meets her, it’s his favourite function to date. As it being the first function he meets Malcolm Hargrove, it’s his least favourite function to date.

Good things, though, continue on.

“I’m giving you my number,” she says, offering his seating card from earlier with her name and a succession of letters and numerals written on it, now. “And you ring me.”

“As you command, Allison,” he says.

They’re standing outside, earlier where Phyllis ground into him about appropriate behaviour. (He did go to the bathroom and Allison followed after him, but only to punch him in the shoulder, say, _you teach that Malcolm, Leonard_ ).

“I suppose this is farewell,” he says, dramatically so because of his accent that incites the Southern Gothic and tragedies of clean families and dark houses with rotting wood. “Goo—”

“No, stop,” she interrupts and places on her hands on his chest.

He looks down at the anguish present before him. “It’s late.”

“Don’t say goodbye,” she says, pitifully, steadily. “I hate goodbyes.”

When she walks away, without a word after and he silent, he looks down at the card.

 _Dr. Leonard Church_ in neat letters alongside a swirling, contorting _Allison_.

It feels as though it may be the most captivating thing he’s seen.

 

_v._

“You don’t have to have her,” he says, seated at the table in his room, quarters given to him on base.

Allison looks at him. “I want to.” She’s as fervent as ever. “Then I go back.”

“And I bring her up?”

“Yes. And I’ll come back,” she says, determinedly crossing her arms, “And I won’t really be gone.”

Where she stands, the same prince-like composure about her and hair tied up and not moving, not quivering, but Allison, Leonard knows he’s in love with her.

It’s been six months after first meeting her and Leonard Church has a doctorate and she is a soldier and she’s pregnant, four weeks.

“She’s going to be beautiful,” Allison says. “She’ll be fierce.”

“How do you know the gender?”

“ _Whatever_.” There’s a pause then, “I don’t care, boy, girl, in between. They’re ours and they’ll be the best, Leonard. _The best_.”

 

_vi._

 

They don’t need to worry about her being the best, not yet anyway, not now.

“It’s a few months this time,” Allison says, holding her bags. The UNSC gave them a tiny little house in a tucked away row of streets, all colours of wood that matches their daughter’s hair colour. “I love you.”

Their girl waits at the door.

“I think she wants another hug, Allison,” he says, and it sounds so emotionless in his voice but he knows that neither he nor Allison are good at goodbyes, and Allison seems to like him closed up sometimes.

He watches her sigh and set her bags down again, a second time, and she cuddles the year-old, the tightest hug he’s ever seen.

It’s 6AM and the morning light makes it so picturesque he wants to savour it into a moment, untouched by any other; Leonard wants to preserve it so it is never forgotten, always remembered.

 

_vii._

 

He calls her his Agent Carolina because, somehow, at the age of four years old she manages to find the hidden biscuits atop the fridge (apparently involving rope she found in the shed), firstly, and secondly, has a tendency to try and do handstands in the most inappropriate of places. Mostly against the kitchen cabinets.

“Why Carolina, though?” she asks, face going red, upside down, in the garden as it was a Saturday and Leonard was home, he took the day off for her because proceedings were going slowly and may as well, no?

“Your grandmother back on Earth,” he explains, quickly moving from where he was sitting on the lawn chair to see if she was uninjured after losing her balance, “was from North Carolina. She has red hair just like you.”

“So why not North Carolina?” she persists, letting him hold her wrist.

“You are better than North and South put together,” he replies, kissing the top of her head.

 

 _viii._

 

When Allison is there, it is the best of times. The days are radiant after radiant, blasting beauty of everything and nothing—Leonard’s typical cynicism is swayed, sacrificed to the smile of mother and daughter.

“We’re going down to that lake,” Allison announces one afternoon, with picnic basket in her left arm, easily holding the weight without a thought. Carolina is seven years old and he loves the two more than anything in the entire world.

Carolina has Allison’s physical muscle structure, nose, all the way, but Leonard’s mother’s hair, Leonard’s eyes, clear and wide and the greenest green to ever green.

“Yeah, we’re going to throw stones,” she says, holding her mother’s hand, “at people who _annoy_ us.”

“No, skipping stones across the water.” Allison sighs and swings their arms together. “You’re really set on that, aren’t you?”

“Yep.” All the confidence of somebody so young and so very Allison and Leonard Church. They should’ve known from the start they’d create a powerful, willful character like Carolina—for good or for worse.

Worse, at seven years old.

“If you get into trouble, it is not my fault,” he says, ensuring not to swear too often around Carolina.

 

 

_ix._

It is for good, at twelve years old. Carolina has the most shimmering mind of any and already wants to study self-defence classes, wants to be just like her mother, wants to shine as desperately.

He might have preferred her to try his line of work, or be an artist, or a musician, something safer, but—

—she’s their daughter.

Her mouth folds tightly into a line the same way Allison’s does when she’s mad at Leonard, usually for working too long on the short times Allison is there.

Leonard also knows, now, not to say goodbye to Carolina either.

His studies continue and when Allison is away, Carolina busies herself with anything she can grasp her hands on. Leonard has found too much, too much about artificial intelligence—knowing something so powerful, something that could help the war? The war Allison is in?

He does not stop.

 

_x._

 

Carolina is still twelve when the news comes.

It is 6:52AM and Leonard Church is already deep in study, his glasses perched on his nose. Well, it’s not study _yet_ —he is Leonard Church for a reason and he’s allowed to have time to read the game results, okay.

There is a knock on the door. An ominous one, an unforgiving one; Allison does not knock. Hargrove came once and used the doorbell.

(He couldn’t get rid of the fucker fast enough, going on about _promotions_ and Charon Fucking Industries for Losers.

Carolina said, afterwards, _you’re never allowed to be as lame as him, dad_.

Phyllis caught wind of the goodbyes given to the man and he was in shit for that, too).

“Excuse me, Dr. Leonard Church?” the woman asks, after Leonard opens the door with wariness. “I’m Officer Kingsey. I’m—you would’ve known sooner, but I understood you do not read the messages via the typical system and I—I thought you and your daughter would have wanted to know in person.”

The way she holds her helmet to her bosom— _with a jolt to the chest he recognises it as Allison’s, knows it anywhere_.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Church,” she says, holding out the helmet. “That’s all we could find. The armada took most of the platoon down and Allison—I’m sorry for the informality, but she always insisted on just Allison—she was trying to reach the upper end of the cliff for a vantage point and use her sniper.”

He stares at the helmet.

“She didn’t make it.”

“I must admit,” his accent death to his ears, “I have never been one for formalities, either.”

Officer Kingsey watches him, and then she looks down at the helmet and they stand there, for maybe thirty seconds, soaking up the information together.

“How close was she?”

“I don’t believe it would be fair to go over this,” the officer says.

“I want to know, ma’am.”

“Almost there. Just missed it.”

The problem for Leonard Church is that it was that particular moment that defined Allison for him.

_Almost._

The cruellest of words.

 

_xi._

 

Before the final skirmish she left for he had recorded her. He’s not sure if it was instinct, if it was clairvoyance.

It was still that. That phrase, the first one:

 _Don’t say goodbye. I hate goodbyes_.

Allison is gone but _he will bring her back_.

(Carolina watches on and tries to find the times he used to swear at things, used to curse the universe just for enjoyment.

Carolina lost her mother and, also, her father).

 

 _xii_.

 

There is a lingering of Leonard Church inside the Director. He buys a ship. _The Mother of Invention_ —the unstringing of bones, _necessity is the mother of invention_ , but, also, _evolution is the undone, the unstrung_.

When Malcolm Hargrove catches wind of it he purchases his own, _Staff of Lame as Fuck Charon_ , and Leonard Church is inside saying _look after your daughter, do better than this_. But the Director is intent on ending this war, intent on finding a solution.

Project Freelancer comes about for these reasons. It may also be the nostalgia that has ruined him, the longing, that creates F.I.L.S.S.

He doesn’t miss Phyllis—all right, he _might_ —but he does attempt to model F.I.L.S.S.’s vernacular after his old PR advisor. Maybe the name, also.

(He despises the Counsellor. He may trust the man with the files on deck, doesn’t mean he has to _like_ the guy.

Sometimes he sends letters to the Chairman. One went like this:

_Dear Chairman of the Oversight Committee and Charon I Have A Small Dick Industries,_

_Suck my balls._

_Yours sincerely,_

_The Director of Project Freelancer_

_Leonard Church_

_P.S. I have a big dick._

Dictating that to the Counsellor was his finest moment).

The worst of reminder of what he was, though, is the creation of the Alpha. Along with him comes Agent Texas, _Beta_ , but Alpha is terrifying.

He’s Leonard Church, through and through.

“So, bud, whatcha up to?” he asks, after waking up, after coming into being, immediately choosing to be cobalt blue—Leonard’s favourite colour—and floats up with his arms crossed. “Jesus, don’t tell me I’m going to wear a suit as gross as that when I’m old.”

“No, Alpha,” the Director says. “You do not age the same way humans do.”

“Thank fuck. Gross.”

The Director has to pinch his forehead.

“Now, I sure do hope we’re gonna be doing shit, because I’m bored.” Alpha reclines back on the desk of the Director’s.

“We will be. Soon.”

He has to tear him apart and break him up before Leonard is thrust away into the past of what he was, what he used to be. Beta is brutal? Alpha is _worse_.

 

_xiii._

 

Agent Carolina is better than South and North.

She’s the best.

 

_xiv._

 

Leonard Church knew all along _Staff of_ _Dumb Corrupt Losers_ was going to be bad. Leonard Church knew and maybe, maybe that's the one final persisting part in the Director.

Also he's quite competitive.

 

Project Freelancer has a cooler name, anyway.

 

_xv._

 

Allison has to see.

She’s not Allison but she is, and she doesn’t know she’s Allison but, in some small way, the Director loves seeing the two, Agent Carolina and Agent Texas, together. It’s an ancient echo of what was.

 

The Chairman is an asshole, still.

But then again, so is the Director. He knows this. He just thinks he's Leonard Church and there's some dividing separator, between his represented personality and between Leonard Church and who he is. He did what he had to, and he watched on as it happened.

 

_xvi.  
_

 

He does this because she still forgave him. Because he could see her doing handstands in the garden back home, cartwheels in combat. Home because that’s where Allison was. She forgave him. She set the gun on the desk.

His daughter with greenest green to ever green looked down at him, despite Epsilon that said he was a monster— _he was and it wasn’t Epsilon that told him this, proved this, it was Alpha_ —she looked at him and he saw the lake and the video Allison took of her throwing stones at tourists scaring the ducks, and he saw the time Carolina gave the blandest of annoyed looks at Hargrove when he came for dinner.

He saw everything he was after and he sought after in memory of Allison when he should’ve tried to find the peridot and dig it up and preserve it.

That’s why he does this.

He was, after all, unorthodox, through and through.

Epsilon, he hopes, could learn to fight and create something better.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. ❤


End file.
